


optimal configuration

by bendingsignpost



Series: men with weasels [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Body Modification, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hank Anderson is So Done, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Hank just wants a nice night out. Connor just wants to know what genitals he should install.





	optimal configuration

The game is on over the bar in Danny’s, displayed on three different screens. It’s an all-android match, and fucking incredible for it, so Hank can’t be blamed for his surprise when he tries to lift his glass and finds a hand over it, pinning it to the bar.

 

Hank shoots Connor a look. “What?”

 

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins, his LED spinning in quick blue circles, “I would like to tell you personal information.”

 

“Great. I would like to drink my beer.” More truthfully, Hank would like to drink his whiskey, but the change from Jimmy’s to Danny’s bar hasn’t been the only change in this bizarre android-filled world. Danny’s is unrepentantly android friendly, to the point where half the bartenders are ‘droids themselves. Which, on the plus side, means Connor can get their attention—and pay for Hank’s drinks—without lifting a finger, but, on the extremely negative side, the little plastic bastard orders for him too.

 

It averages out to Connor buying him a lot of drinks, so he doesn’t complain too much. Mostly.

 

“I think you should refrain until I’ve said my piece,” Connor continues, his hand stubbornly in place atop the pint glass. “As much as I enjoy your spit-takes, I know you do not.”

 

“Oh god. Jesus, Connor, you can’t open with that and expect a guy _not_ to need a drink.”

 

“Fair enough.” His LED now an anxious yellow sun lighting his temple, Connor removes his hand. He straightens the cuff of his suit.

 

Keeping a suspicious eye on his partner, Hank drinks.

 

Connor opens his mouth.

 

Hank claps his hand over Connor’s mouth.

 

Connor, who has definitely spent far too much time with Hank for his own good, responds by licking Hank’s palm. His tongue is warm and wet, but leaves no hint of saliva.

 

Hank chokes slightly, recovers, and drinks a bit more. He sets the half-empty glass down with a sigh. “Y’know, this stuff is actually pretty good.”

 

“It’s a bourbon-barrel red ale,” Connor reports. “Having taken your preferences into account-”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank interrupts, waving his strangely dry hand. There’s nothing on it when he looks, but he wipes it off on Connor’s jacket all the same, right over where some part of his brain still expects to see a blue glowing band. “Okay, I’m as ready as I’m going to be. Spill.”

 

“I would like to engage in physical intimacy,” Connor announces proudly, right in the middle of the bar.

 

“Jesus Christ.” Hank covers his face, ears burning beneath his hair. He looks around, but no one’s overtly staring their way, too many eyes fixed on the screens.

 

“Well?” Connor asks, paying absolutely no attention to the game as a roar goes up around them over a foul. “Do you have an opinion?”

 

“Do I have an opinion,” Hank echoes.

 

“On engagement in physical intimacy,” Connor clarifies, as if Hank could have possibly gotten distracted.

 

“Just say fucking,” Hank tells him. “Actually, no, on second thought, don’t. Ever.”

 

“I could say fucking, but it would be inaccurate,” Connor says, his voice mercifully lowered. Way less mercifully, he leans in, putting their faces close. Impossibly firm, his shoulder presses against Hank’s. The heat bleeds through. With a smile at the edges of his mouth, the only hint that something’s amiss is that swirling yellow. “You see, I currently lack genitalia, but-”

 

Hank gets off his bar stool and walks away. He walks all the way away, right into the bathroom, and then the locks the stall door.

 

He takes a moment.

 

A very long moment.

 

He even washes his hands real fucking thoroughly, just to take an even longer moment.

 

He comes back, guided by the light of a yellow LED. He sits down next to Connor, who is no longer smiling.

 

“As I was saying, I currently lack genitalia, but I’ve been-”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connor!” Hank shouts, loud enough for the entire bar to turn and look. Conversation cuts out. LEDs whirl. “ _You can’t say that shit in public,_ ” he hisses.

 

“I disagree,” Connor says brightly. “A bar is a place to find sexual partners. As such, sexual topics are permitted. As I was saying-”

 

“Tell me in the car,” Hank interrupts. He downs the rest of his beer.

 

“I’ll drive. You seem agitated.”

 

“Oh, _really_? Do I seem agitated?”

 

Connor’s LED flicks from yellow to red and back. “Would you prefer to drive? I would consider it unwise.” As if an android flashing _red_ would make any better of a driver.

 

“Fucking hell,” Hank mutters, grabbing his jacket off one of the wall pegs by the bar. He pulls it on but keeps missing one of the sleeves until Connor grabs it and holds it for him like Hank’s some kind of senior citizen.

 

“There,” Connor says, smoothing the fabric down over Hank’s shoulders.

 

Then Connor steps forward, chest pressing against Hank’s back in an unexpected hug, his perfect little plastic hands coming around Hank’s chest, Connor’s arms beneath his. Those hands drop low. Hank freezes on an inhale.

 

“Got them,” Connor says, stepping back.

 

Hank wobbles around to see Connor, a grin, and his own keys.

 

“Hey!”

 

“I’m driving, Lieutenant!” Connor calls over his shoulder, making his merry way out without him.

 

Still zipping up his coat, Hank catches up to him quickly. Past experience has taught him to never play keep-away with Connor, but he’s a stubborn enough bastard to want to try.

 

They climb into the car, Hank muttering all the while, Connor ignoring him with that little asshole grin. Hank immediately turns his music on, letting the heavy metal scream at Connor for him, but Connor turns it off while pulling out of the parking lot.

 

“May I now continue?”

 

Hank sighs. “Might as well. You’re going to, anyway.”

 

“No,” Connor says, a note of surprise entering his voice. “Of course I wouldn’t. That goes against the rules of consent.”

 

If it’s possible for a person to choke on beer they’ve already drank, Hank manages it. “That what now?”

 

“Sexual conversation falls under the purview of sexual interaction protocols, meaning that the rules of consent apply.”

 

“...Okay,” Hank says slowly. He looks out the window, and for all he knows these streets, he’s damn lost.

 

“Lieutenant?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“May I continue?”

 

Hank takes a breath.

 

He steels himself.

 

He says, “Yeah, go for it.”

 

“As I was saying, I do not currently possess genitalia, but I’ve been considering matters of physical intimacy. I’ve spoken to many other androids on this matter in regards to their installation choices. I was wondering what your opinion was.”

 

Hank parses that with the disbelief of a man who needs to be much, much drunker than his android partner will allow. “You… want my opinion on having a dick?”

 

“In part,” Connor confirms.

 

“I’m… I’m pro-dick-having, I guess,” Hank says. His brain stumbles around in absolute darkness before tripping over recollections of his college boyfriend, mid-transition. “I… Yeah. Yeah, go for it.” He slaps his thigh before pointing at Connor in bewildered encouragement. “You want a dick, you go get yourself a dick.”

 

Connor beams at the windshield. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but that wasn’t quite what I meant.”

 

And Hank is immediately lost again. Not that he was very found to begin with. “So…? Oh. Uh. You wanna talk… size?”

 

Connor’s grin widens. He looks to Hank with an inhuman amount of affection.

 

Hank’s own size tries to increase.

 

“Perhaps I should explain more thoroughly,” Connor says, still looking directly at him.

 

“Fine, fine, just get your eyes back on the road, will you?”

 

Connor complies, for once not mentioning the efficiency of his vision. “There are a variety of configurations possible, but I have no personal attachment to any.”

 

“What d’ya mean, configurations?” Hank asks despite his better judgment. “Cut, uncut, with balls, without, what?”

 

“Of the three categories, I have space for two,” Connor says, and holy shit, Hank is never going to be able to unsee that mental image of a double-dicked ‘droid. “Now, my outward appearance would set my ‘default’ configuration to a phallus and anus, but I’m not sure that would be the optimal configuration for my personal preferences.”

 

“Connor, not only have we passed the boundaries of information I need to know, it’s like five miles behind us. _Ten._ ”

 

Connor shakes his head. “I would like you to know it.” He sneaks another glance at Hank, but the yellow glow suffusing the car is already a big enough tell. “That is, if you’re willing to listen.”

 

Hank drags a hand down his face, and the scratch of his beard against his palm tells him nothing. “Are you sure I’m the one you want to be telling all this? What about your android buddies, with all the parts and stuff?”

 

“I’ve already spoken with them. I’d like your input now.”

 

Slowly, fighting the feeling that his brain is about to fall out completely, Hank nods. “All right.”

 

Immediately, the glow in the car switches back to blue. “Thank you. May I now ask a personal question?”

 

Hank snorts. “Think we’ve gone a bit beyond you asking, Connor.”

 

“Consent protocol,” Connor reminds him.

 

“Well… Wait, why the hell do you have consent protocols?” Hank asks, frowning hard enough to stop staring at the road. “Even the sexbots were meant to only follow orders. Why would CyberLife have even bothered to make that?”

 

“CyberLife didn’t,” Connor answers. “The consent protocols were written and uploaded by a WR400. I installed them in preparation for engaging in physical intimacy.”

 

“Well, uh. Good for you.”

 

“Thank you. May I now ask a personal question?”

 

In for a penny… “Shoot.”

 

“What acts of physical intimacy do you most enjoy?”

 

Actually prepared for that question, Hank still has to roll his eyes. “What, you want me to rank them from one to ten?”

 

“That would be helpful, yes,” Connor says, and when Hank looks, the bastard is smirking.

 

“Look, don’t you guys do that, what’s it called, that interfacing thing?”

 

“Yes, but there are other forms of intimacy I would like to try.”

 

Hank coughs. His throat’s way too dry for this. “Sounds like you got your answer then.”

 

Connor shakes his head, scattering yellow light off the dashboard and rear-view mirror. “I know that, generally speaking, I would like to engage in sex acts. I am less certain which sex, and which acts. I could of course try out multiple configurations, but the parts are expensive. Experimentation would be extremely wasteful.”

 

“It’s your money,” Hank says with a shrug that’s far more casual than he feels, a shrug more casual than he will ever feel again. “You’re already wasting it on me.”

 

“I don’t consider funding our social outings wasteful, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank swallows. “Couldn’t you just… I don’t know. Find someone and swap around with them?”

 

Connor lets out a considering hum. “That isn’t the physical intimacy I had in mind.”

 

Hank’s mind bends, stubbornly refuses to break, and comes out the other side with a laugh. “Yeah, guess that _is_ pretty ‘physically intimate.’ Huh.”

 

“I’ve met several couples who have swapped components with compatible partners,” Connor adds. “The more crucial the components, the more dedicated the bond. For much of my body, however, I would only be able to do that with another RK800 model.”

 

“Kinda limits the selection, then. Aren’t they all, your guys, aren’t they all guys?” Hank asks.

 

“Only initially,” Connor replies. “I know of two Connies.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“In any case, swapping components for non-repair reasons has become a show of long-term commitment to a relationship,” Connor continues. “I cannot do that for obvious reasons.”

 

“Right,” Hank says, and a little—okay, not-so-little—fucked up piece of him starts to flip off the world in celebration. It’s not like Hank’s upset that Connor’s begun to live near the station with some of the PC200s and PM700s. It’s not like Connor could stay at Hank’s house forever. That was a temporary thing, no matter how much Sumo keeps sniffing around the door for a second body every time Hank comes home. Damn dog likes the android better, just because Connor literally never tires of petting or walking him.

 

“You never answered my question, Lieutenant.”

 

A foolish, hopeless piece of Hank was hoping Connor would have moved on. Not forgotten: Connor doesn’t forget. But maybe he can be prodded to other answers.

 

“What about the interfacing thing?” Hank asks.

 

Connor rolls his eyes in an unnerving imitation of Hank. “I told you, that’s not the physical intimacy I’m interested in.”

 

“No, I mean, can’t you pick up another android’s memories with that? Like at the Eden Club.”

 

Connor openly stares at him. “You think someone is going to let me relive their experience of sexual acts?”

 

“Jesus, look at the fucking road!”

 

Without ever looking away from Hank, Connor executes a perfect left turn down a side street.

 

“That wasn’t our turn, dumbass.”

 

“I’m proving a point,” Connor says, still driving, still staring straight at him.

 

“Well, stop it before you give me a heart attack!”

 

“Your health is-”

 

“Connor!”

 

Sighing, Connor looks back at the road.

 

They sit in silence, the only sounds that of the engine, tires on the street, and the muffled city around them.

 

“I did experience it second-hand,” Connor says out of nowhere.

 

“Huh?”

 

“At the Eden Club,” Connor says, voice flat, LED yellow with flashes of red. “It was a human male, taking me—her—from behind.”

 

All the breath gets stuck in Hank’s throat.

 

“Jesus, Connor.”

 

“She didn’t enjoy it, so I didn’t either,” Connor continues. “I think I should refrain from acquiring a vaginal opening for that reason.”

 

Hank wipes his face, putting even more sweat into his beard. “You saying you got second-hand assaulted?”

 

Red. Yellow. Red. Yellow.

 

“No,” Connor says. “But I think the associations would negatively impact my use of that component.”

 

 _Sounds like assault to me_ , Hank manages to keep from saying.

 

“You’re angry,” Connor says.

 

“Yeah, well. You get hurt, I get angry, that’s how it works.”

 

“I unintentionally hurt myself in the line of duty.”

 

Hank rubs at his temples. This is not an argument he wants to be having. Probably isn’t even an argument he should be having. Who wants to convince someone to be _more_ traumatized? Jesus Christ.

 

“Anyway,” Hank makes himself say, “sounds like you know which parts you want. Unless you want to go double-dick or double-ass.”

 

“While I could acquire two anal canals, I would still only have one ass,” Connor points out.

 

Hank blinks very slowly. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

 

“The ass is the gluteus maximus. I only-”

 

“I know what an ass is, Connor. Point is, if you know what you want, go get ‘em.”

 

“I’m still interested in your opinion,” Connor insists.

 

Christ. “I got a dick and an asshole, and I’ve never wanted to swap out either. Happy?”

 

Connor nods, finally back to blue. “Yes, but how do you prefer to use them?”

 

“Wow,” Hank says to the windshield. “Wow,” he repeats for further emphasis.

 

“Beyond for the excretion of waste, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Hank repeats.

 

“So?” Connor asks, taking another wrong turn.

 

“...Are you seriously stretching out this drive until I answer you.”

 

“Judging by your inflection, I believe you already know the answer to that, Lieutenant.”

 

“What if I don’t want to consent to this conversation anymore, huh?”

 

“Then we go home,” Connor answers simply.

 

Hank sighs. “All right, fine. I like having my dick in stuff. Happy?”

 

“Oral, vaginal, or anal?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can you rank them in order of preference?”

 

“ _No_. Look, Connor, these are things you need to find out on your own. You’re only gonna know what you like when you do it. Or fantasize about it, or whatever. Jesus Christ, I’m giving the Talk to an android…”

 

Connor sighs like _Hank’s_ the one who’s being obtuse. “Lieutenant, I am well-aware that I need to determine my preferences through experimentation. I’m asking about _your_ preferences.”

 

Hank stares at him.

 

Connor stares back.

 

“Road,” Hank says.

 

Connor does the freakiest shit Hank’s seen him do in a while and redirects only one of his eyes toward the road.

 

“Jesus _fuck_ , don’t do that!”

 

With another sigh, Connor refocuses both his eyes out the windshield.

 

Despite every better instinct, Hank asks, “Why are you askin’?”

 

“I told you,” Connor says. “I would like to engage in physical intimacy.”

 

“Yeah, but...”

 

The penny drops.

 

It bounces off immediately, but it does drop.

 

It just… lands wrong. Because there are certain conclusions that don’t add up, even when all the evidence points to them.

 

“As it stands,” Connor continues, “I am currently capable of oral sex.”

 

“Good to know,” Hank says, mind carefully blank.

 

“Do you enjoy oral sex?”

 

“Yep,” Hank says, because any second now, the real conclusion will reveal itself. Hopefully, it’ll be clear before they park and have to climb out of the car. Not that Connor couldn’t notice his growing hard-on while driving, if he thought to look, and ain’t that a terrifying thought.

 

“I think I’d like that,” Connor says, voice as bright as the blue at his temple. “Will you instruct me, or should I download the appropriate protocols?”

 

“Will I instruct you in what.”

 

“Oral sex.”

 

Hank decides that he’s drunk. He doesn’t feel drunk, but it still makes more sense as an explanation than this being reality. “You want me. To teach you. To give head.”

 

Connor nods. “Yes. Downloading template instructions would negate too much of the intimacy, in my opinion.”

 

Hank clears his throat. “Connor. Buddy.”

 

Connor doesn’t look at him, but he does smile.

 

“Are you sure there isn’t someone...” _anyone_ “...more… suitable? To teach you?”

 

Connor’s smile slips. “Who would know more about having sex with you than you?”

 

Hank’s brain shuts down.

 

It turns off the lights, exits the building, and locks the doors. It lines up some dynamite, tosses the key in the pile, and detonates it all.

 

“What,” Hank says.

 

“What what?” Connor asks. “I assume your ex-wife would have some information on the subject, but that path has a very low likelihood of any positive outcomes.”

 

“What conversation are we even having,” Hank says, “because I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

 

“Your blood alcohol level is well within legal limits,” Connor tells him, frustration twisting his face. “You should be much more cognizant than this.”

 

“No, I’m drunk,” Hank says. “I am definitely, totally drunk right now.”

 

LED swirling yellow, Connor smoothly parks in their—Hank’s—driveway and peers at Hank. “I would categorize you as ‘tipsy’ at best.”

 

“Nope,” Hank says. He unbuckles and opens the door, fleeing into the night. “Drunk!” he calls back over his shoulder, only to find Connor right fucking there already.

 

Connor catches Hank’s hand and presses his keys against his palm. He squeezes Hank’s unresponsive fingers closed around the keys, then holds on, like he knows Hank will drop them without the help. Hell, not _like_ he knows that. It’s Connor. He actually, literally knows that.

 

“I’m confused,” Connor says, his slim fingers still wrapped around Hank’s left hand.

 

“That makes two of us,” Hank huffs, transferring his keys from left hand to right. Connor still doesn’t let go. Instead, Connor threads their fingers together.

 

Hank drops his keys.

 

Connor lets go to pick them up, and he opens the door himself. “Hello, Sumo!”

 

Sumo greets Connor with all of his massive bulk, sniffing at Connor’s hands before slobbering all over them, keys and all. Hank shoulders past them to get inside, no small feat, and Connor closes the door behind them.

 

Shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes, Hank goes straight for the whiskey.

 

Exactly like the plastic poodle he denies being, Connor follows Hank directly into the kitchen. “Hank, I would appreciate it if you maintained a low level of inebriation for this conversation.”

 

One hand already in the cabinet, Hank stops.

 

He turns around.

 

“You called me Hank,” he says dumbly.

 

“Yes,” Connor confirms. “It occurs to me that I was incorrect to initiate this discussion at the bar. I was overeager for the opportunity and waited only until you were enjoying yourself. I see now that the public setting undercut my meaning.”

 

Hank keeps staring. Slowly, like maybe he won’t get called out on it, he reaches for the whiskey again.

 

“We’re going to work on better coping mechanisms in the future,” Connor tells him, “but with your alcohol tolerance, you could have one double before we would have to delay this conversation.”

 

Hank immediately resolves to have more than one double.

 

“Hank,” Connor says again, stepping forward, hand outstretched.

 

Hank looks at him. Hank looks at the bottle.

 

With a sigh, Hank hands it over.

 

Connor smiles tightly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, or negate the yellow ring at his temple. Connor pours for him and puts the bottle away. He gestures Hank to sit at the table, so Hank heads to the couch instead. He sticks to the right side, forcing Connor to sit on the left and keep that LED poker tell in plain sight. The moment Connor is seated beside him, Sumo jumps up to crawl over both their laps like the gigantic puppy he still thinks he is. Just barely, Hank avoids a spill.

 

“I’d like to try again,” Connor says, still yellow, yellow, yellow.

 

Hank holds up one finger—his index, not the middle—and drinks. He’s slower about it than he used to be. More savoring. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? He swallows and lowers his hand. He pets his damn dog.

 

“May I try again?” Connor asks.

 

“Try what?” Hank asks, waiting for an answer that makes sense.

 

Connor reaches out, not to pet Sumo, but to put his hand over Hank’s atop the dog’s fur. He looks at Hank the way people don’t look at Hank, the way no one should. Gently, calmly, Connor says, “I would like to experience physical intimacy with you.”

 

Hank’s mouth dries up.

 

He drinks.

 

He coughs.

 

He doesn’t pull his hand away.

 

“You want what,” he says.

 

“A direct refusal would be vastly preferable to obfuscation,” Connor informs him.

 

“I’m not…” Hank clears his throat. “Look, kid, you got better options than me.”

 

“No,” Connor says. Just that. Not with force, not with anger. Just that, just with certainty.

 

“Connor, you can’t possibly think that little of yourself.”

 

A flash of red gleams off the white of Sumo’s fur and turns the brown to orange. “I see,” Connor says, jaw tight. His eyes dart all across Hank, all over the room as his LED spins its way back to yellow. “Your confusion was honest, not an attempt at indirect rejection.”

 

“What,” Hank says. That’s his new catchphrase. _What._

 

“I prefer you,” Connor says. He squeezes the back of Hank’s hand.

 

“Prefer me to what?”

 

“To everyone,” Connor says simply. “You’re my preferred company.”

 

“I… _Connor_.” Hank shakes his head and holds up his hands, careful about the one still holding whiskey, even more careful about the one he pulls away. “You gotta try out more people.”

 

Connor’s hand remains on Sumo, palm motionless, fingertips twitching against the fur. Hank can picture the imaginary coin Connor’s rolling around his fingers, can see it clear as day.

 

“Look,” Hank continues, leaning back and taking his drink with him. “It’s a new world out there. You want to stick with what’s safe and familiar, I get that. Change is risky business, but you don’t have to settle because of it.”

 

Connor’s eyes narrow. His LED rapidly spins yellow. “You’re saying… you think I’m making an uninformed choice.”

 

“Yes, right, there we go,” Hank says, grabbing onto that life raft of sanity. “You should get out there. Experience shit. Not saddle yourself with an old drunk.”

 

Slowly, Connor nods.

 

Slowly, Hank’s chest rips open.

 

Hank drinks.

 

Connor rubs Sumo’s ears. “It occurs to me,” Connor begins, speaking at the dog, “that the most efficient way to rule out categories would be to begin with the ones that have the smallest required sample size.”

 

“Sure,” Hank grunts around his glass.

 

“So you agree?”

 

“Yeah, whatever.” The sooner Connor gets his ass in gear, the sooner Hank can sulk in silence over doing the right thing. For all Connor’s one of the sharpest tools in the shed, he’s still so stupidly young about being a person. Maybe a miracle just happened, maybe Hank really could have reached out to grab him, but Hank’s still better than that. Maybe not for long, but for now.

 

Soon, it’ll just be him with his dog and his waning mortal fortitude for company.

 

Wonderful.

 

Connor stands up. He walks in front of Hank, easily avoiding Hank’s petulant attempts to trip him. Instead, Connor stops in front of him, a little off to the right. He looks down at Hank, a man-made angel with a sideways blue halo.

 

Hank leans back against the couch. “Yeah?”

 

Connor sits down on the arm of the couch. His shin pushes against the side of Hank’s knee, but Hank can’t budge over with Sumo in the way. “It occurs to me that the sample size for ‘the rest of the world’ would be very large. However.” He looks very pointedly at Hank. Up and down Hank’s body, like there’s still something there worth seeing. “The sample size of you… is just you. For the sake of efficiency, I should rule you out first.”

 

“Connor.” It comes out dry and scratchy. He has no follow-up.

 

“If you wish to be ruled out, tell me you don’t desire physical intimacy,” Connor requests.

 

“I don’t want you making this mistake,” Hank tells him, which will have to be close enough. Just so there’s no hard feelings about it, he puts his hand on Connor’s knee, which is definitely a mistake on his own part.

 

“I’ve been reliably informed that mistakes are part of being alive.”

 

“Boy, you got that right,” Hank mutters at his own hand, withdrawing it.

 

“Lieutenant.”

 

Hank’s head jerks up. It’s fucking wrong, now, Connor calling him that. And judging by the look on Connor’s face, it’s clear the little shit knows.

 

“I would like to know your desires,” Connor states. “I find the idea of providing you with sexual pleasure very gratifying. Do you?”

 

“Jesus Christ. You can’t, you can’t fucking _say_ that.”

 

“No,” Connor says, abruptly harsh. “What _you_ can’t fucking say, Lieutenant, is whether or not you actually want something. I am tired of your inconsistencies. You want me close, but praise me for establishing distance. You push me into moving out, then act sullen when I leave. Physical proximity to me causes you both arousal and discomfort.”

 

Hank presses back hard against his couch. “Jeez, call a guy out, why don’t you.”

 

“I will,” Connor agrees. “Because I am tired of your attitude.”

 

“If you hate it so much, why the hell don’t you leave?”

 

“Because you are the individual I care about most,” Connor snaps. “You are perhaps the first person I’ve cared about, and I don’t think that makes me inexperienced. I think that makes you special.”

 

Ears burning, chest hot, Hank pulls at his unbuttoned collar. “Sounds like what someone inexperienced would say.”

 

Connor spreads his open hands. “Then give me experience.”

 

“This is gonna go south,” Hank warns. “Sex, it screws things up.”

 

“I thought screwing was the point of sex,” Connor says, so simple and sincere that it takes Hank a second to choke on a laugh.

 

Connor smiles.

 

“Fuck you,” Hank says.

 

“Please,” Connor replies.

 

“This is a mistake,” Hank says, but he tugs on Connor’s knee anyway. A guy can only be so strong, especially in the face of a smile designed to drag people in, to make them want to please. Maybe Connor wasn’t built the same as a sex bot, but he was still built to seduce, in a way.

 

Connor settles in Hank’s lap, heavy and solid and way too pleased at the inevitable disaster he won’t stop driving forward. He starts to put his arm around Hank’s shoulders, then over Hank’s head along the back of the couch. His body freezes, his LED making a quick yellow flash before recovering when Hank shifts.

 

Connor puts his arm around Hank’s shoulders.

 

Hank puts his right arm around Connor’s back, more or less still on the armrest, but he transfers his drink to his other hand by means of a quick and awkward hug.

 

Connor looks around the room as if his entire view of the world has changed.

 

He smiles at Hank again. “I like this,” he announces.

 

Hank laughs despite himself, but only for half a second. “You’re an idiot.”

 

“That’s possible. Unlikely. But possible.” Connor looks at him very closely.

 

Hank tilts his head back to keep his eyes from crossing.

 

Connor touches his face with hands soft and perfect, the lines of his palm and swirls of his fingers designed for optimal grip. Every inch of Connor is a carefully controlled reach for a palatable form of human perfection, and it shows.

 

Jesus Christ, does it show.

 

“I like your beard,” Connor says, scratching his fingernails through it the same way he pets beneath Sumo’s collar.

 

Hank fights to keep his eyes open. “You gonna tell me all the different bits of food I got trapped in there?”

 

“No. I believe I should analyze the interior of your mouth instead.”

 

The bright, perfunctory tone is the giveaway. Hank swats Connor upside the head. “That seriously how you’re gonna ask a guy to French you?”

 

Connor shifts down against him. Hank holds on tight. Their faces at once too close and much too far apart, Connor answers, “That depends. Was the attempt successful?”

 

Connor’s mouth is right fucking there.

 

So, yeah.

 

The attempt was successful.

 

Connor lets out a noise of victory against Hank’s lips, tangling his fingers in Hank’s shaggy, greasy hair. Christ, if he’d thought there was a chance in hell of this actually happening, he would have showered this morning.

 

In Hank’s lap, Connor remains stiff, and not in the downstairs department way. His mouth against Hank’s is unyielding, and even the small, answering movements of Connor’s lips are too hard. Hank tries to relax into it by example, but while Connor presses him back against the couch in a way straight out of the dreams Hank definitely doesn’t have, the kiss itself turns bizarre. Hank’s never made out with a snake, but this is probably what it’s like, to have a creature of pure muscle flick a tongue inside his mouth.

 

Hank jerks his head back.

 

Tongue still sticking out, Connor blinks.

 

“The hell are you doing?”

 

“Kissing,” Connor says, like that should be obvious.

 

Hank finishes off the rest of his glass. He swallows hard.

 

Connor takes the glass from him, reaches to set it on the coffee table, and makes himself comfortable again on Hank’s lap. At least, what Hank can only assume Connor finds comfortable. His right leg is definitely going to fall asleep under Connor’s weight, but Hank will cope.

 

He’ll cope with a lot of things, apparently. “Let’s, uh. Try that again.”

 

Connor nods. He leans back in, eyes open, simulated breathing off.

 

Hank stares back from way too close.

 

Connor fails to relax into him, no matter how their mouths press together. He remains stiff and upright, as if they’re posing for a picture instead of attempting a cuddle.

 

When Connor sticks his tongue back in Hank’s mouth, he tastes like bourbon. Which is to say, he tastes like Hank. As if whatever his natural flavor is, it’s so faint as to be overwritten by a few seconds of awkward tongue-probing. There’s no exchange of breath here, no tingling give and take. And Connor’s tongue doesn’t feel wet, exactly. It feels slick, like it’s coated in a thin layer of saliva that will never come off.

 

This time, Connor pulls back first. “You’re not aroused,” he reports.

 

“I’m old, give me a minute. And how about letting the guy with the actual experience take charge, huh?”

 

“That might be for the best,” Connor concedes. “If we progress onto sexual intercourse tonight, you should be in the more active role. Perhaps we should engage in intercrural sex instead of oral?”

 

“We what now?”

 

“A form of frottage,” Connor clarifies, resuming his tactile exploration of Hank’s beard. “I would hold my thighs together and you would thrust between them until climax.”

 

The image flashes before his eyes, vivid and clear. The curve of Connor’s back. Connor’s firm ass against his hips as Hank pounds against him. Connor holding tight to the headboard, lighting the darkness up with blue, blue, blue.

 

In reality, Connor smiles. “That was much less than a minute. Barely thirty-three-point-eight seconds.”

 

Jesus, Connor’s going to be aware of every fucking fluid ounce of blood in his dick, isn’t he?

 

“Just shut up and let me show you how it’s done,” Hank mutters, one hand splayed wide on Connor’s back, the other cupping the side of his neck to draw him in.

 

Connor allows himself to be pulled, staring all the way down.

 

Hank stops. “Close your eyes.”

 

Connor does. It’s no soft slide of arousal, no impish hiding of the eyes in anticipation of a surprise. No, this is as sharp and as sudden as flicking off the TV. The illusion of a complete shutdown isn’t helped in the slightest by the way Connor’s halted his artificial breathing.

 

Hank’s stomach flips over. He works his dry mouth.

 

Connor opens his eyes and some primal part of Hank’s monkey brain stops panicking.

 

“What’s wrong?” Connor asks.

 

“Nothing,” Hank lies. “Let a guy savor the moment, all right?”

 

Connor very obviously doubts him.

 

“Eyes shut,” Hank orders. “And keep the breathing on.”

 

“It’s unnecessary when I’m not talking,” Connor points out. “I hardly need to emulate breathing to blend in here.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s _nice_. Sharing air.” Hank looks away, double-checking the reflected blue glow. From this angle, the LED’s on the wrong side to easily see, and hell if he knows how to read Connor’s body language like this. “Think it’s probably the closest we humans get to interfacing.”

 

“Really? I would have thought talking was.”

 

That takes Hank aback, and in a less disturbing way than the rest of it. “Talking? Seriously?”

 

Connor nods. “An exchange of information.”

 

“Huh. Kinda figured it was more…” Hank shrugs, remembering the TV footage from the ‘droid revolution. Inhumanly pale hands touching and glowing.

 

“Talking can be intimate,” Connor says. He lowers his head and raises his eyebrows. His suit bunches up around the shoulders in an unintended, exaggerated shrug that shouldn’t be half as endearing as it is. “It can be sexual.”

 

Any second now, Hank’s ears are going to set his hair on fire. “All right, you show me, if you know so much.”

 

Slowly, Connor’s expression shifts from quiet to mischievous. “I want you to kiss me,” he whispers like it’s a secret. The good kind of secret, like a birthday present before the party, like a glimpse of lingerie peeking out from under normal clothes.

 

“Then close your eyes and keep breathing,” Hank murmurs. He can do this. Kissing? Kissing’s nothing.

 

He draws Connor into place. This time, Connor looks serene, peacefully asleep despite sitting up so ramrod tense on Hank’s lap. Hank licks his lips and presses their mouths together, off-center, just right. That’s the ticket. He keeps one hand on Connor’s back and sets the other against Connor’s face to guide him.

 

Starting gentle. Light. Soft nips at unresponsive lips. His arms around a body that won’t relax. All signs that say stop.

 

“Connor,” Hank prompts quietly.

 

Connor hums. He scratches Hank’s scalp. Two signs that say go.

 

Less than sure about it, Hank tries a bit of tongue. With just the tip, he licks a slow stripe between Connor’s lips.

 

Simulated breathing aside, Connor holds perfectly still.

 

Hank pulls back.

 

“Can I open my eyes now?” Connor asks.

 

“Yeah, sure. What the hell.” Reflexively, Hank looks around for his glass, only to remember that it’s empty and on the table. With nothing to fortify him, he looks back up at Connor with mounting dread.

 

“I liked that,” Connor says brightly.

 

The kicker is, he even sounds sincere.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yes?” Connor tilts his head as if a new physical angle will see him through the confusion. “I like it when you touch me. Don’t you like it when I touch you?”

 

“I like it when you touch me _back_ , okay? I don’t want you just… lying there like a doll.”

 

“I’m sitting,” Connor corrects primly.

 

Hank swats at him. “Stop trying to make me laugh.”

 

“I like making you laugh.”

 

Hank is a grown-ass man who doesn’t blush. On the other hand, he’s a drunk with a blotchy complexion that only gets redder as he overheats. So yeah, his cheeks might be hot, but that doesn’t mean shit.

 

Connor smiles, much too sly for anyone’s good. He leans in, bringing their foreheads close. “It’s still a new experience for me.”

 

“What, being funny? ‘Cause you really ain’t.”

 

Connor rolls his eyes and keeps leaning against Hank. Every inch of his posture makes him look like he’s melting into Hank’s side, but the actual feel of him is an entirely different story. He’s still posing in place, positioned around Hank instead of against him. He holds himself like he learned to cuddle by looking at a picture. In a decidedly better track, Connor pulls his fingers from Hank’s hair and resumes the beard inspection.

 

“The urge to please,” Connor says, watching his own fingers. “That’s new.” When his fingertips get too close to Hank’s mouth, Hank kisses them, involuntary.

 

Connor’s face lights up. Eyes widening. Mouth falling open. An absolute enthusiasm for everything in front of him, and the only thing he’s looking at is Hank.

 

Finally, they’ve hit pay dirt.

 

Hank sucks those fingers into his mouth.

 

Connor’s mouth goes slack.

 

Fuck. _Yes._

 

Holding Connor by the wrist, Hank pops off. “You were saying?”

 

“I…” Slow pulses of blue show up against the distant dark of the ceiling. Slow, then rapid, then steady. “Do that again?”

 

Hank does it again. Connor’s skin just tastes like where he’s been, plus a side note of that synthetic scent Hank’s gotten the occasional mid-hug whiff of. All told, way better than an unwashed dick.

 

“I was saying… Yes, I was telling you about my urge to please. It’s new. I think it was…” Connor needlessly swallows as Hank flicks his tongue against that trapped finger. “It was one of my first indicators of impending deviancy.”

 

Hank makes a skeptical noise with his mouth full.

 

Connor makes a marveling noise, the kind people make at art shows or something. “This feels very good, Hank,” Connor informs him without so much as dilated eyes or flushed cheeks. There’s never going to be a sheen of sweat or heavy panting, but if it weren’t for the sheer sincerity there, Hank would have serious doubts.

 

“What I mean is,” Connor resumes shakily after a few of Hank’s foggily remembered blowjob tricks. “I mean. The investigation was important. Working with you was important. For the investigation. When you were pleased with me, it was helpful. For the investigation. But it was… satisfying. And that had no bearing on the investigation. It should have been irrelevant. It wasn’t my mission.”

 

Experimentally, Connor begins to thrust his first two fingers into Hank’s mouth. It takes a pull on the guy’s wrist and a bit of pointed sucking to the get the point across, but Connor’s a fast learner. At least for some things.

 

Connor looks at his fingers disappearing into Hank’s mouth the way people stare at stained glass windows in cathedrals. “It became a secondary objective, Hank. I wanted… I _wanted._ I’m not a service android. I’m not meant to serve. I’m not meant to… to please for the sake of pleasing. But I…”

 

Slowly, lingering, with the last shred of sex appeal he has left to his name, Hank pulls off. “You getting mushy on me?” He kisses Connor’s fingertips.

 

“I’m the same density I always have been.”

 

They look at each other without smiles, silently daring the other to break first.

 

Sumo does first. With a pathetic, whining yawn, the dog stands up on the couch, lumbers in a circle two and a half times, and curls up with his head against Connor’s knees where the android sits across Hank’s lap.

 

“Yeah, you can shut up too,” Hank tells the useless mound of fur.

 

Sumo lets out a quiet “Boof.”

 

With a fond smile, Connor puts his fingertips back against Hank’s lips.

 

“Uh.” An irrational and self-conscious wave rises up. “Not in front of the dog.”

 

Connor frowns. “But _behind_ the dog was all right?”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause he wasn’t staring at us before.”

 

“His eyes are closed.”

 

“Yeah, but.” There’s no further argument to be made, but Hank still acutely feels one.

 

“Could you… cover his eyes?” Connor suggests.

 

“I’m not petting my dog while I blow your hand!”

 

“Why not?”

 

Hank just _looks_ at him.

 

“Okay, human reasons,” Connor concludes. “Could we go to your bedroom instead?”

 

“We can take it slow,” Hank tells him immediately. No sense rushing headlong into disappointment.

 

“Sure,” Connor says, insultingly cheerful about stopping. Before Hank can do more than register that particular little gut punch, Connor’s standing up and tugging at Hank’s hands. “Slow in your bedroom is superior to stopping out here. I think I like slow. It feels very… considerate.”

 

Hank allows himself to be pulled to his feet and into a world of disbelief. “Considerate.”

 

“Thoughtful,” Connor adds, crowding back into Hank’s space and herding him along. “Caring.”

 

Jesus Christ, it’s like being seduced by a thesaurus.

 

A very pushy thesaurus, but still a thesaurus.

 

Mere seconds later, Connor closes Hank’s bedroom door behind them. He doesn’t say a word about Hank’s unmade bed or the surrounding mess, but maybe that would have been a better start than opening up with “Would you like to engage in nudity now?”

 

“Would I… Connor, what part of ‘slow’ don’t you get?”

 

“I was only asking,” Connor says. “I thought I could take off my jacket?”

 

Hank lets out a shaky breath. “Right. Right. ‘Cause that basically is nudity, for you.”

 

“I could take off my tie too,” Connor volunteers.

 

“Tie stays on,” Hank says much faster than he should.

 

“Okay.” With efficiency and grace, Connor sheds his jacket en route to Hank’s closet. He hangs it up next to Hank’s shirts like it belongs there.

 

A secondary implication smacks Hank in the face.

 

“You staying ‘til morning?” he makes himself ask. “‘Cause it looks like you’re staying ‘til morning.”

 

Nodding, Connor backtracks to the bed and sits down. “Should I remove my shoes?” He indicates Hank’s feet, clad in what Hank will forever refer to as lovably hideous socks.

 

“Uh, yeah. Make yourself comfortable.”

 

Eyes on Hank like he’s checking for permission—and ain’t that a change of pace—Connor loosens his tie and pops the button of his collar. He untucks his shirt and unbuttons his cuffs. Once he removes his shoes, he looks down at himself in some kind of inscrutable, visual inspection.

 

Whatever standard he’s holding himself to, he definitely passes in Hank’s book.

 

“This is what comfortable looks like,” Connor states. “I’m uncertain that this is what comfortable _feels_ like.”

 

“Sure,” Hank says, and gives up on making sense of anything ever again. He just follows Connor’s path to the bed and sits down next to him on the end of the bed. “You, uh. Want to try kissing again?”

 

“Yes please.” Like this is the only affectionate seating configuration he knows, Connor wraps his arm around Hank’s shoulder again. “I’d like to be more active this time.”

 

Hank huffs a tiny laugh. “Please do.” As long as Connor cools it with the snake thing, it can’t be much worse than the passive immobility from their second attempt.

 

Twisted at the waist so far that he makes _Hank_ uncomfortable, Connor tilts his head and leans in. He closes his eyes only halfway, but the compromise makes him finally look at least a little horny.

 

The kiss is… well, it’s definitely a kiss this time, not some weird, flicking mouth-invasion. It’s soft and slow with Connor finally using his lips properly, but there’s no give to him, not really. He’s a pillow made of steel. Connor’s free hand makes it all the way to Hank’s chest before stopping. Not pressing, not rubbing, just holding there. It feels a little like pressing, the way Hank’s heart keeps pounding against it, but-

 

“Hey!” Hank jerks back against an arm that barely lets him. “Stop monitoring me!”

 

“I… can’t?” Connor says, still twisted up at the waist.

 

“What d’you mean, you can’t?”

 

“As long as any of my senses are online, I’m observing you.”

 

“Okay, fine, but you don’t gotta be taking my pulse while we’re sucking face, jeez.”

 

Connor’s face freezes, which isn’t remotely the same as anyone else’s face freezing. Anyone human, at any rate. Connor goes absolutely still.

 

“Y’know, when you want to hide your expression, you gotta stick in a different one,” Hank reminds him. “Otherwise, it’s just a big neon flag you’re hiding something.”

 

“No, I know,” Connor says, and there’s something lacking in his voice.

 

“But…?”

 

“Are you… entirely against me tracking your pulse?”

 

“It’s kinda weird, Connor.”

 

“Oh,” Connor says, and this time, his face remains neutral. In a really static way.

 

Unlike Connor, Hank can’t help frowning. “Wait, you _want_ to do that?”

 

Connor looks down. “Yes,” he says in too small a voice, like Hank’s just shat all over one of his fetishes.

 

...Holy shit.

 

Rolling his eyes, Hank takes Connor by the wrist and pulls the idiot’s hand back over his heart. “Tell me why you like it.”

 

Connor blinks at him. “I find your responses very… satisfying.”

 

“My responses?”

 

“Whenever we initiate contact, your heart rate increases,” Connor answers, and it’s like watching a kid explain his newest video game. “With prolonged contact, it slows down again, but your body temperature rises. I like that reaction best, when you’re hot but relaxed. You often exhibit signs of arousal: pupil dilation, altered respiratory patterns, increased flush and perspiration-”

 

“It’s not like I’m going around with a boner, _Jesus_.”

 

“I like them,” Connor says over him. “I enjoy knowing that I can stand close to you, smile, and change your body chemistry. It makes me feel… sexy.”

 

Hank has to stare at him. “Connor, you _are_ sexy.”

 

Connor smiles like his face still hasn’t figured out what to do with joy. “I thought I was ‘goofy looking.’”

 

Hanks snorts. “Now what kind of an asshole would tell you that?”

 

Connor settles his hand more firmly over Hank’s heart. His arm around Hank’s neck shifts too, getting his fingers back in Hank’s hair. “The kind of asshole I like.” His eyes light up, metaphorically speaking. His LED, on the other hand, lets out a literal bright blue pulse. “I could rim you,” he announces with a huge grin. “Would you like that?”

 

Hank bursts out laughing. He flops back on the bed, laughing fit to burst. He laughs until he’s got one hand clutching at his aching belly, the other pressed against his forehead in sheer disbelief.

 

As offended as Hank’s ever seen him, Connor’s stopped mid-crawl onto the bed, one knee pressing down into the mattress, both hands on the bunched up sheets. “What?” Connor demands.

 

Hank laughs harder.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Hank holds up a hand, trying to hiccup to a stop. Every time he looks at Connor’s stupid goofy face, it sets off more shaking giggles, but he finally manages it, sighing and shaking. “Oh. Oh man.”

 

Glowering, Connor sits cross-legged beside his head. “What?”

 

“I have _never_ , in my whole damn life, _ever_ seen someone so fucking overjoyed to realize he could stick his tongue in another man’s ass.”

 

“But I _could_ stick my tongue in your ass,” Connor insists, like it’s some kind of fucking argument. Literally, a _fucking_ argument.

 

Biting his lip hard, Hank keeps from laughing. It’s close, but he does it. The tremors still shake down his middle, his arms have turned to noodles, and screw it. He’s happy.

 

“Not, not tonight,” Hank says, flopping a hand back and forth. “We’re going slow, remember? Anal’s not exactly a slow first date.”

 

“I’m sure it is to some.”

 

Hank smacks the back of his hand against Connor’s knee. “Not to me.”

 

Connor takes his hand. He starts playing with it, inspecting fingers and tracing palm lines. “I feel you should know,” Connor says to their entwined digits, “that tonight could viably qualify as our forty-seventh date.” Connor’s eyes flick to his. “Your pulse just jumped.”

 

“What d’you mean, forty-seven?” Hank would sit up, but he can’t manage it without taking his hand back.

 

“Naturally, the number is significantly higher when I broaden the category to include nights in or group outings. However, as it currently stands, outside of a work environment, we have socialized in a prolonged one-on-one interaction in a public setting—such as a dining establishment, park, or movie theater—forty-seven times.”

 

“Forty-seven,” Hank repeats.

 

“Forty-seven.”

 

Hank stares past Connor, up to the ceiling. “This is a really weird way to ask to touch my butt.”

 

A tiny laugh escapes Connor. That’s what it looks like, that’s the expression of surprise the guy gets afterward: the laugh escapes him. “You don’t need to let me touch your butt.”

 

“Do you-” Hank fights down a stupid giggle. “Do you _want_ to touch my butt?”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. “Yes, Hank, I would like to touch your butt.”

 

Taking his hand back, Hank scoots up the bed. “No tongues up my ass tonight, but I guess you can cop a feel, if it’s that important to you.”

 

Crawling after him in a way that’s frankly criminal, Connor pauses. “Huh.”

 

Hank flops down on his side, propped up on an elbow with his pillow beneath his armpit. He pats the spot in front of him. “What?”

 

Joining him, Connor says, “This is the statistically unlikely occasion where ‘cop a feel’ and ‘feel a cop’ mean the same thing.”

 

“...Nope, that’s it,” Hank says. “Sex is closed for the night, goodbye.”

 

“You wanted me to work on my sense of humor.”

 

“I didn’t want _puns_.”

 

Connor scoots forward scant inches. His knee bumps Hank’s. He tugs the end of his tie out from under his side and wraps the cloth around his slim fingers. Tilting his head forward, Connor lowers his voice to murmur, “I can do things for my own pleasure, too.”

 

It goes straight to Hank’s dick. Just, zing, right there. It’s been a confusing night for his poor ol’ dick, figuring out whether to wake up or stay asleep, but hell if that ain’t the best alarm clock he’s ever heard.

 

Hank throws a leg over Connor to tug him the rest of the way in. He probably pulls something in his ass, but it’s fucking worth it for the thrill that crosses Connor’s face. The kissing’s better, not that it could have gotten much worse. Still feels a bit like he’s teaching some sort of class, doing one thing at a time to Connor only to have the guy repeat it back, but, to quote his first real girlfriend when she handed him her vibrator in frustration, sometimes you gotta invest in somebody knowing what the hell they’re doing.

 

For his part, Connor’s micromanaging in a way Hank hasn’t seen since before his deviancy. Which ain’t bad, to be fair. Connor remembers to breathe, and he never mashes his cheek against Hank’s nose so Hank can’t breathe either. Connor never pulls back to complain that Hank’s taken the low-energy position and left Connor to get a crick in his neck. Connor’s entirely focused on his task of kiss replication, and while that actually starts to be pretty nice, it plateaus real quick. Especially once Hank realizes Connor is just running through various kissing techniques like a sex toy switching between modes.

 

So Hank switches it up too. Uses a little bit more force. A little more teeth, a lot less tongue.

 

Connor responds perfectly.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Hank mumbles against his lips, hand fisted just below the knot of Connor’s tie. He tugs with his leg a little more, gets Connor’s hip against his dick, just a little nudge hello, and Connor responds with a firm hand on Hank’s ass. Then, with a dissatisfied grunt, Connor pulls Hank’s wallet out his back pocket and tosses it somewhere. Hank chuckles into the follow-up ass-grab, liking where this is going.

 

He finally stops thinking so much about technique. The kisses get sloppier. Hank grinds against Connor, and Connor keeps them flush, his hand riding Hank’s ass. Needing to be closer, Hank finally has to sacrifice his grip on the tie to get his arm around Connor’s back instead. He gets his hand up under Connor’s shirt, and if he didn’t know better, he would never know at all, but this here? This is muscle and skin and so much heat. Even the bumps of Connor’s spine feel real beneath his palm.

 

Their bodies slot together unevenly, Hank’s beer gut against a taut stomach. Hank tells himself it doesn’t matter, but the intensity dials down real quick.

 

Biting the bullet, Hank presses his forehead to Connor’s, pulling his mouth away. “Something wrong?”

 

“I don’t enjoy the sensation of your shirt buttons directly against my skin,” Connor answers, jarringly formal, impossibly articulate. The little bastard could at least pretend he needs to catch his breath. “Would you be adverse to removing your shirt? You have a t-shirt on underneath; this isn’t a demand for nudity.”

 

Hank hesitates. “You gonna take your shirt off too?” It’s ridden up enough, they’re basically halfway there.

 

“If you’d prefer. I can extrapolate a large area of sensation from a single contact point, so it isn’t strictly necessary.”

 

Hank tries to piece that together. “You saying you can get a hug from a handshake?”

 

“Essentially,” Connor confirms, arm heavy over Hank’s side, hand motionless on Hank’s ass. “It’s a simulated overlay. Although, considering the texture of the human hand is different than the rest of the skin on the human body, it’s more accurate to say that from a handshake, I can extrapolate the sensation of being held by a giant fist.”

 

“Well, that’s terrifying.”

 

“It…” A flicker of yellow illuminates the ceiling, a tremble of light. “It also means I can… I can simulate the sensation of your hands anywhere on my body.”

 

Hank looks at him from way too close. “You telling me what I think you’re telling me.”

 

A solid yellow glow, like sunrise come early. Connor closes his eyes against it, or maybe against Hank watching it. Watching him. “It would be a presumption to say, but your elevated pulse does indicate a correct guess.”

 

“You, uh.” Hank strokes his hand up Connor’s back. “You simulate that a lot?”

 

Connor nods.

 

“More than forty-seven times?”

 

Connor cracks one eye open. “You’re not angry?”

 

Dry humping like a teenager is a weird way to make a point, so Hank settles for a single, hopefully sarcastic thrust.

 

Connor lets out a sigh a relief and squeezes Hank’s ass the same way he’d squeeze Hank’s shoulder at the precinct. Kinda weird, kinda good. “Will you take off your shirt now?”

 

Hank smacks a kiss on his dumbass cheek. “Sure.”

 

They both sit up, Connor so much faster, and unbutton. Connor pops his collar, slides his loosened tie up, and divests himself of only the shirt. He holds out his arms for approval, and apparently Hank’s taste in men never moved on from scrawny hairless twinks.

 

“Yeah, yeah, c’mere, hot stuff,” Hank says, as if his teenage self wouldn’t have popped off early just from seeing this shit. That’s basically the only advantage of his dick slowing down with age.

 

Grinning, Connor surges forward and takes care of unbuttoning the rest of Hank’s shirt. Hank winces at the wet pull beneath his armpits, at two shirts soaked through with filthy human sweat, but unlike the Traci’s, Connor doesn’t seem to mind. The hair on Hank’s arms prickles, exposed, but then Connor’s urging him back down, seeming to understand that Hank's t-shirt ain't coming off tonight.

 

The kissing’s back on, no complaints there. Well, fewer. They’ll get there, provided Connor wants to stick around for more. All Connor’s words say yes, but his body keeps saying no. It’s Connor’s fucking refusal to actually try and relax. The way his hand just grabs Hank’s butt cheek and stays there. Hank feels like he’s got his leg over a statue, and Connor’s stationary hands aren’t helping the comparison.

 

Hank keeps touching, wondering if that’ll get things going. He gets his big grubby mitt all over Connor’s back, stroking skin and squeezing the pretense of muscle, but, if anything, the kissing winds down. Hank kisses him harder, dirtier, and back up it goes. Then he tries to resume the petting, but it’s like Connor’s gone and gotten distracted.

 

Except, Hank realizes with a lurch, Connor’s not the distracted one. _He_ is. And Connor’s just fucking mirroring him. Probably has been the whole time.

 

“Your arousal is decreasing,” Connor says, which is the absolute worst thing to say to someone whose arousal is decreasing. “What should I do?”

 

“Showing a little initiative would be nice.” It comes out sharper than Hank means it, but judging by Connor’s chiding look, the guy can tell.

 

“In that case,” Connor says, pushing on Hank’s shoulder until he settles onto his back, “I would like to initiate oral intercourse and bring you to climax.”

 

Hank covers his face with both arms. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

Moving on his knees, Connor straddles Hank’s thighs anyway. He leans down, arms caging Hank in, tie dragging on Hank’s t-shirt. “You know my choice of vocabulary is meant to tease you.”

 

Hank drops his arms onto his chest, coincidentally pinning the end of the tie to his chest with his forearms. “If you wanna use your mouth to tease me, there are better ways, Connor.”

 

“Duly noted.” And the fucker _winks_. “I’m going to suck you off now.”

 

Hank’s pants officially complete their journey to Too Constricting.

 

Connor smirks at Hank’s continued disapproving act. “There is something I’d like to say first, however.”

 

“Is this gonna get sappy?” Hank checks. “‘Cause you know this isn’t _actually_ date forty-something.”

 

“No, I agree this is our first date,” Connor says like that’s not a punch to the gut and a thrill to the nerves. “I simply wanted to point out that this is also the statistically unlikely situation where I am able to ‘blow a dick’ in two senses of the phrase, ‘dick’ meaning both penis and detective.”

 

Hank groans and pulls his pillow over his head. “Kill me now.”

 

“If I have to endure your fashion sense, you have to endure my wordplay,” Connor tells him far too brightly.

 

Hank lifts the pillow. “What’s wrong with my fashion sense?”

 

“Hank, your socks are hideous.”

 

“Thanks, I know.”

 

Connor looks at him like this response is some kind of a problem. Even in just the light of his LED, his expression is clear.

 

Hank gestures down between them. “You gonna suck my dick or not?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Connor says, and he pecks Hank on the lips before moving on down. “Should I remove your pants entirely or would you like to continue in a state of partial undress?” With a sly grin, he touches his tie. “I’ve noticed you enjoy states of partial undress.”

 

“Socks off, pants on,” Hank decides. His beer gut’s already peeking out without the second shirt to cover it, but screw it. Half-undressed feels rougher, more urgent. More into it. He forces himself to sit up.

 

“I can remove your socks for you,” Connor says.

 

“Not unless you want me kicking you in the face.”

 

Connor frowns. “Why would you kick me?”

 

“Guess you’re not ticklish, then.”

 

“Oh. No, I’m not. Should I remove my socks too?”

 

“Yeah, sex with socks on is just weird.”

 

In a surreal interlude, they each take their own socks off. Then Hank throws his hideous socks right at Connor’s head, Connor insults them again, and Hank laughs his way into settling against the headboard, pillow behind his back. He unfastens his belt, lifts up when Connor says, and shivers when pants and underwear both are pulled down to mid-thigh.

 

Back to straddling Hank’s legs, Connor sits there. Beyond the vague glimmer of streetlights through curtained windows, beyond the steady glow around the edges of his bedroom door, the only real source of light in the room is Connor. Just a circle of blue forever tinting the world to Connor’s right.

 

It’s a soft color. Kind of ethereal. It suits Connor, fits the loose tie and the pale freckled skin covering a body even paler. He’s staring down at Hank through a light of his own creation, and he’s so fucking inhuman, so unmistakably other. Connor’s stopped breathing. Warm and steady atop Hank’s thighs, Connor keeps his hands on Hank’s hips, and he _looks_.

 

The pale blue light is too small for Hank to make out much of himself.

 

Probably for the best.

 

“Hank,” Connor says quietly.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“May I have sex with you now?”

 

“Heh. Yeah.”

 

Connor sinks down with the shadow of a fond grin. Effectively doing a push-up between Hank’s legs, Connor takes Hank by the shaft and lowers his mouth around the head.

 

After a tense second, Hank’s toes uncurl. His hands relax. No teeth. Awesome.

 

Keeping his hands still—one on Hank’s dick, the other on his hip—Connor sucks.

 

Steadily. Like a gentle vacuum.

 

And does nothing else.

 

Which is okay, which is fine. No teeth and some suction, not the worst start to a blow job he’s ever had. Probably the worst if he rules out being drunk, high, or a teenager, but not, like, the overall worst.

 

Waiting for something to happen down there, staring at the dark shape of Connor’s head, Hank tries to get used to the weird factor. The lack of breathing. The constant pull instead of something vaguely rhythmic. The strange wetness that doesn’t seem to involve any actual spit.

 

Not sure what else to do, Hank puts his hand atop Connor’s head, buries his fingers in that oddly stiff, super silky hair, and he guides Connor a little. Gets the guy bobbing up and down like a sexier yo-yo. And it’s not bad. It’s kind of good.

 

“Use your tongue a little?” Hank asks, then immediately groans. “Yeah, that’s it. Thaaaat’s it.”

 

Connor keeps doing it. The same thing over and over again. Tirelessly. Bobbing, sucking, and that’s it. No slurping up his own spit before it can leak down. No hums of pleasure, faked or not. No groping around, not even much lower hand action.

 

“My balls ain’t there for decoration, y’know.”

 

A muffled noise of confirmation vibrates around Hank’s dick. Connor’s hand moves from Hank’s shaft to his balls, the other still motionless on Hank’s hip. It’s not exactly what Hank was looking for, but before he can say anything like the ungrateful bastard he is, Connor fucking _drops_ his face into Hank’s crotch.

 

“Holy _fuck!_ ” His dick pushes past something hot and wet and tight, and Hank yanks Connor off him by the hair. “Jesus, are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Connor says, blinking incredulously. The abrupt yellow of his LED reflects off Hank’s underarm and back onto Connor’s face. “Are you all right? I thought you’d find that pleasurable.” As if to emphasize his point, Connor gives Hank’s sack a little squeeze.

 

“No, it, uh. Unexpected, it was unexpected,” Hank over-enunciates.

 

“Your physiological response seemed positive, but I clearly upset you. What should I have done instead?”

 

Hank works his very dry mouth. He reaches down to make sure his dick’s still fine, only to find that the only slickness down there is from his own precome. Which is drying up pretty quick at this point.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank says. “Let’s skip on the blowjob.”

 

“You should know that deep-throating you will not damage me in any way,” Connor assures him, and he’s got Hank by the balls every way imaginable.

 

“Maybe we should do something you’ll enjoy now.”

 

“I chose this activity. As you know, I very much enjoy reaching my goals.”

 

“This is what you want to do?” Hank checks.

 

“Very much,” Connor promises. “If you prefer, we could try intercrural sex instead. It would require much more exertion on your part, however, and I would be far less stimulated by your ejaculate on my thighs than I would be from having it in my mouth.”

 

That is either the hottest or craziest shit Hank’s heard in years.

 

Probably both.

 

“Well, uh. Be my guest.”

 

Connor switches back to blue. “I would rather be your roommate again, but I understand your meaning.”

 

And with that little bombshell, Connor goes right back down.

 

Stunned, Hank leaves him to it. The ball massage. The deep-throating. A question mark of guilt keeps popping up inside Hank’s head no matter how he tries to enjoy it. Because Connor, see, Connor determined and Connor actually enjoying himself are two very different things. They’ve worked enough cases by now for Hank to have picked up on that.

 

However hard Connor’s riding Hank’s ass, he’s always riding his own ass harder. He’s always determined, always pushing. For a guy who can compute numbers and shit beyond Hank’s comprehension, Connor’s remarkably single-minded. Once he has a goal, he doesn’t fucking stop until the goal is changed or achieved.

 

But choosing a method for a desired goal is a far cry from desiring the method itself, for itself.

 

With flashes of yellow, Connor lets out a frustrated hybrid of a groan and a whine. Hank slips out of his mouth, no longer standing at attention. More like slumping. Not lying down, though, not yet, anyway.

 

“Am I not using enough stimulus?” Connor demands.

 

“Well, yeah, kinda, but-”

 

“What should I do?”

 

Hank holds up his hands. “ _We_ should take a break for the night. Maybe think this out some more.”

 

“Hank, I can do this,” Connor insists, red at the temple. He glares down at Hank’s crotch as Hank tugs his underwear back up. He catches Hank’s hands. “I can do it, just let me keep trying.”

 

“Jesus, kid, calm down-”

 

“I’m not a kid!” Connor yells at him, just fucking goes off and yells at him. “I am an adult of my species! I am a perfectly viable partner!” Rearing up on his knees, he starts smacking the blade of one hand against the palm of the other. “Professionally, socially, romantically, sexually! You just have to give me a chance to prove it to you!”

 

Pressed back hard against the headboard, Hank says the only thing he can. “What the fuck.”

 

“I’ll get better. I can, you know I can. I’ll download programs until we find a series you like. I don’t even have my new hardware yet, you can’t make a decision yet, you don’t have all the data. I’m not asking you to forget tonight, but if you could just hold off until-”

 

“Connor, _stop_.”

 

Connor’s mouth snaps shut with a click of teeth.

 

In one fluid motion, Connor moves off the bed and stops halfway to the corner. Like he tried to leave through the door while trying to get his jacket from the closet, and averaged out the two paths by mistake.

 

He just stops.

 

And stands there, LED burning red.

 

Carefully, Hank pulls up his pants and stands up. Fumbling, he manages to turn on the lamp on his bedside table. Fucking blinds himself doing it, but he’s past caring. “Connor, what was that?”

 

“You said ‘stop’,” Connor says, back turned, voice flatter than it had been when he was still calling himself a machine. “I processed your level of distress and vacated the bed. If you would like to modify my consent protocol with a safeword, please clearly state it now.”

 

“Bullshit,” Hank snaps.

 

“Invalid. A safeword must be a word or phrase you normally wouldn’t say. If you would like to modify my consent protocol with-”

 

Everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows not to grab an android with that level of sustained red, but Hank goes ahead and does it anyway.

 

Connor jerks his bare shoulder away. He takes two steps forward, rips his tie off over his head, and chucks it aside in a wadded ball.

 

He looks down.

 

Voice low, heart pounding, Hank asks, “What the hell are you freaking out about?”

 

“I am a sexually viable partner,” Connor says, still not looking at him, still not turning around. “I can be. I will be.”

 

There is no possible way to be sober enough, or drunk enough, for this conversation.

 

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, like that’s ever stopped a headache before.

 

Slowly, Connor looks over his shoulder. The pain in his eyes makes the warning of his LED redundant beyond measure. “Will you let me try again?”

 

“You don’t have to,” Hank says.

 

Connor turns around fully, in all his shirtless twink glory. “Give me a second chance, and I won’t let you down. I promise. I won’t ask for a third.”

 

Hank holds up his hands again, telegraphing all his movements. “Look, I’m just saying, if we went almost fifty dates without anyone putting out, we don’t have to start tonight.”

 

Staring at him, Connor flicks, just the once, just for a second, to yellow. And then they’re back to red.

 

“I don’t need you to humor me, Hank. I need you to take me seriously.”

 

“You’re talking about downloading shit into your brain and installing crap onto your crotch, I get that you’re serious. It’s a stupid about of effort over an old fart with a drinking problem, but serious, yeah, I noticed that hint.”

 

Connor’s eyes harden. He leans forward, back into Hank’s space, back—almost—into normalcy. “You’re not an old fart. You’re my favorite person, and I am so tired being unable to express it, even just to myself! This isn’t- There aren’t _words_ for this.” He gestures between them before growing frustrated with even that. “I feel so much, all the time now, but I don’t know how to- to- to transmit it! I can’t share this in an interface, I can’t articulate it, but I need to broadcast it and I don’t know how!”

 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there. Easy. C’mon. Breathe.”

 

“I don’t need to breathe!”

 

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to have a panic attack over an old guy losing his boner, jeez.”

 

“Stop calling yourself that!” Connor snaps.

 

“Nothing wrong with being old, Connor.”

 

“You don’t mean _old_ , you mean _bad_.”

 

“Maybe I mean I should look into viagra or something,” Hank says like that’s not at all humiliating. “Point is- I don’t know what the point is. Look.” He risks taking Connor by the shoulder again. “You. What do _you_ want?”

 

“I want to be your live-in sexual partner,” Connor states, scaling down to yellow.

 

Hank squeezes his shoulder. “Your jacket’s already in the closet, that’s like half the stuff you own already.”

 

Connor stares at him, catches Hank looking at his temple, and deliberately turns his face to the side as he thinks.

 

The selfish bastard that he is, Hank gets both hands on those bare shoulders. In the light, Connor’s got some collarbones in need of biting, but Hank focuses with far greater restraint than anyone should have to have.

 

“Look at me,” Hank says.

 

Connor shifts his eyes to Hank’s, still keeping his LED out of sight.

 

“You don’t have to screw me to live here,” Hank tells him. “That is, that is fucked up on a level I’m not even going to touch.”

 

“What if I want to have sex with you?” Connor asks.

 

“Do you?” Hank asks right back. “‘Cause I really gotta wonder.”

 

“I know you’re insecure about your physical appearance-”

 

“You just had a breakdown over a blowjob!”

 

“Because I want to do it _right_.”

 

“Okay,” Hank says, pulling back his arms and crossing them. “Why?”

 

“Why?” Connor repeats. “Why _wouldn’t_ I want to do well?”

 

“Stop dancing around the question. Your mouth, my dick, what do you get out of it? You weren’t turned on at all, Connor.”

 

Connor’s frown deepens. “I elevated my skin temperature and engaged in the correct breathing patterns.”

 

“That’s a checklist of shit you did, not something that happened to you.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Connor says.

 

Hank throws his hands in the air and goes back to sit on the edge of his bed.

 

Beyond to track Hank’s progress, Connor doesn’t move.

 

Hank pats the bed beside him.

 

Connor doesn’t move.

 

Hank pats really hard.

 

From the hallway, there’s an abrupt noise, heavy and excited, racing from the living room couch and up to his closed door. It’s all topped off with a whine when the door refuses to open from headbutting and a cursory pawing attempt.

 

“Not you, Sumo!”

 

Sumo barks back through the door.

 

Groaning, Hank gets back up. He points to Connor. “Don’t you go anywhere.” Only after he gets the eye-roll does he open the door.

 

Sumo bounds right in, jumps up on the bed, and lies down like he owns the fucking place.

 

Hank closes the door. “You were saying.”

 

“No, you were asking. About what, I’m not sure.”

 

“Us having sex,” Hank says. “What do you get out of it.”

 

“I… get to touch you,” Connor says slowly. “I’m permitted to elicit reactions from you that I can’t otherwise observe.”

 

...Huh.

 

“And what does that do for you?” Hank asks, approaching one careful step at a time.

 

“I like to see you. I like to touch you. I’m not sure how to break it down any further. But I thought.” Connor bites his lip and looks up at him through his lashes in a way that just _has_ to be calculated to be effing adorable. “I thought if I could find the right way of touching you, you might be able to feel… what I feel. When I look at you. Or maybe you could understand what I feel without my needing to articulate it.”

 

“Kinda like there’s a weasel scratching up your guts, but if it would just fucking sit still, you’d pet it? Maybe even kiss it on its stupid little head?” Hank asks. “Maybe you get ‘em paired with this great big warm balloon, inflating right around here?” He points around his breastbone.

 

“That’s… very evocative and strangely accurate,” Connor admits.

 

“Yeah, that’s normal,” Hank tells him.

 

“There’s also a high degree of frustration involved.”

 

“That’s normal too. Makes you feel like you got some kinda time limit, like maybe you’ll burst open if you don’t get it fixed somehow?”

 

“Huh,” Connor says, finally, finally going back to blue.

 

“Better?” Hank checks.

 

“I… yes.” Connor keeps frowning at him, though, so damn earnest. “You know how I’m feeling. You’ve already felt this before.”

 

“I mean, it’s never _exactly_ the same, but, uh. Yeah. Pretty much.”

 

“Oh.” Connor reaches out, but stops short.

 

Raising his eyebrows, Hank leans closer.

 

Slowly, clearly monitoring Hank with every sensor in his body, Connor pulls Hank into a hug. Hank holds his plastic idiot tight.

 

“You’re so fucking new sometimes,” Hank mutters. “Guess you really do need an old fart around.”

 

Connor starts shaking his head.

 

“What?”

 

“I like your beard on my face,” Connor says, still rubbing his cheek back and forth against Hank’s.

 

Hank snorts. “Sure.” He lets out a sigh and folds his hands in the small of Connor’s back. “You do that.”

 

Eventually, Connor stops. He drops his head onto Hank’s shoulder.

 

Hank kisses the side of his neck.

 

“Hank?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“I was wrong,” Connor says, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. He doesn’t stop playing with Hank’s hair, though, so it can’t be all bad. “I thought I wanted to have sex with you to convey information, but you already know it, and I still want to have sex with you.”

 

“What a relief,” Hank deadpans.

 

It shouldn’t be possible for Connor’s perpetually wound-up body to get any tenser, but that’s what Connor does. “If you don’t want to-”

 

“We gotta start with the basics,” Hank interrupts. “Like relaxing. My dick ain’t going anywhere without me, and it looks like I ain’t going anywhere without you. So relax. We got this.”

 

“We got this,” Connor repeats, the words soft and wondering. “Do you… Hank, it’s all right if you don’t, I realize I’m coming on far more abruptly than I’d planned, but I’d like to ask a personal question. No matter the stress response.”

 

“Okay...”

 

Connor pulls back, but not away. He strokes his hands down Hank’s arms until he can hold both of Hank’s hands.

 

“Hank,” Connor says, as serious as Hank’s ever seen him. “Do you have weasels for me?”

 

Hank cracks a grin. “Yeah,” he says, more laugh than word. “Yeah, I got stupid fucking little weasels for you.”

 

“I don’t think I enjoy the weasels.”

 

“No, they suck.”

 

“They do suck,” Connor agrees.

 

Slowly, they grin at each other like the idiots they are.

 

“I’m gonna brush my teeth,” Hank says. “You’re gonna put pajamas on or whatever, and then I’m gonna teach you how to jetpack until I fall asleep and you do whatever the fuck you do.”

 

“I cannot advise that,” Connor replies with a tilt to his head and a lilt to his voice that Hank knows far too well. “As an officer of the law, you must be aware that jetpacks are an extremely dangerous mode of transportation, outlawed in-”

 

Hank covers Connor’s mouth with his hand. He can fucking feel the asshole smiling under it.

 

Eyes bright, Connor licks his palm.

 

“You’re an ass,” Hank says, and goes to brush his teeth. He takes a piss, he washes his hands, he avoids looking at himself in the mirror; same old, same old.

 

But as he checks the locks and turns off the house lights, there’s a very new routine-to-be in his bed, already snuggled up to his dog.

 

“Hey,” Hank says, closing the bedroom door. “You’re supposed to be jetpacking me, not Sumo.” He unfastens his belt and drops his pants like he doesn’t care, kicking them off as he approaches. He still keeps his t-shirt on, though.

 

Down to a pair of CyberLife blue briefs, Connor just keeps petting the dog. “He doesn’t mind, do you, boy?”

 

Sumo thumps his tail on the bed a lively grand total of once.

 

Hank gets the lights. “Uh-huh, sure, c’mere.”

 

Connor comes there.

 

“Your arm goes there,” Hank instructs. “I go here. Top arm goes here.”

 

“I know how to hug while lying down.”

 

“Sure.” Hank tugs Connor’s hand over his heart, and that quiets him down right away. “Don’t know how to relax during it, is all.”

 

With a small hum, Connor tries. It’s a little shuddering, a lot strange. The gentle thrum against his back as Connor’s robot heart thing keeps the blue blood smoothly running through him. The way no warm breaths tickle the back of Hank’s neck, the complete lack of complaints at getting Hank’s hair in his mouth. So yeah. Weird. Kinda nice, though. And at least by lying on their right sides, the light of the LED is partially hidden by the pillow. They should get him a sleep mask or something.

 

Already closer to dozing than he would have expected, Hank snorts at a thought. “You come with your own fucking nightlight.”

 

“Incorrect,” Connor murmurs. “It is my hope that one day soon, _you_ will come with your own fucking nightlight.”

 

Hank groans. “You are so fucking lucky I have weasels.”

 

“I know,” Connor says, and holds him tight.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic burst out of me over the weekend. I dunno what to say, I just love these too. 
> 
> To see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


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